​Leave him to the rot, the captain sneered, his voice cutting through the dry, biting wind like a rusted blade. Do not waste another ounce of water on a dead man walking.​Lennon Vale did not look back. He could not. His legs had long since surrendered, turning into heavy blocks of lead that dragged through the jagged rocks of the wasteland. Behind him, the rhythmic thud of his clansmen retreating sounded like a funeral drum beating in the silence of the end of the world. He was nineteen, a supposed exile, a castoff left to feed the dust. The sun was a dying ember hanging in a bruised sky, offering no warmth to the frost beginning to crust over his torn tunic.​Are you still breathing, trash? one of the younger scouts jeered from a distance, throwing a parting stone that clipped Lennon’s shoulder.​Lennon tasted copper as he slammed into the grit. Get lost, he rasped, his throat feeling like he had swallowed a handful of glass.​Leave him, the captain commanded again, impatient. We ha

Yield your weapon or yield your soul, the massive stone guardian boomed, his voice sounding like two mountains grinding together.​Lennon Vale did not yield. He stood his ground as the giant swung a hammer that looked like it had been forged from the heart of a fallen star. The air hissed as the weapon passed, missing Lennon by a fraction of an inch and cratering the solid bone floor beneath his feet. Lennon leaped back, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.​You are not listening, Vaelen warned from the safety of the shadows, though his voice was closer than usual. This is not a brawl in a tavern. This is a duel of echoes. Do not fight him with your arms. Fight him with the history that flows through those bones.​Lennon parried a downward strike, his silver claw singing as it collided with the guardian’s heavy metal plate. The impact vibrated through his entire skeletal structure, and for a second, he saw flashes of a forgotten war. He saw shields breaking and spears shattering.

​Blood is a heavy price to pay for a secret, Lennon whispered as he watched the crimson droplets stain the pristine white bone floor of the heart chamber.​The room throbbed with a low, agonizing hum. Lennon’s hands were slick with his own vitality, the energy leaking from his palms like molten silver. He stood before the central pedestal, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with the cold fire of the dragon echoes he had recently claimed. Vaelen hovered in the corner, his translucent form flickering violently as if the very air in the chamber was rejecting his presence.​You are playing a dangerous game, Vaelen said, his voice strained and thin. You are binding your own lifeforce to these spirits. If they break, you break with them.​Lennon wiped his hands on his tunic, ignoring the sharp, stinging pain that pulsed through his veins. They will not break, he replied, his voice raspy. I will not let them. I felt the Judge out there, Vaelen. That thing does not just want to win. It wants

Do not touch that soil, Elara commanded, her voice slicing through the heavy, stagnant air of the graveyard like a whip.​Lennon froze, his fingers inches from the gray, powdery dirt near the base of a massive, fossilized ribcage. He looked up at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. The dust looked just like all the other dirt in this godforsaken place, but the way Elara was staring at it, one would think it was made of liquid fire.​Why? Lennon asked, pulling his hand back and dusting off his palms. It looks like everything else here. Just dead stuff waiting to blow away in the wind.​Elara stepped closer, the hem of her robe brushing against the ground without making a sound. That is exactly what they want you to think, she said, her eyes shifting to a brilliant, predatory silver. This is not dirt, Lennon. This is residue. It is the concentrated decay of a thousand years of broken dreams. If you touch it without the proper warding, it will start to eat your memories. You will forget